Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar

was incorrigibly light. To live for her-to live for Valdemar. He dared to speak, though it might damn him even further. 'And she? Will I stand beside her in life after life?'

'In every life,' said the judge, 'you two shall be bound. You shall never have her as mate or consort, nor shall your love ever be requited.'

'But we will be together,' Mathias said. 'That is enough.'

The judge was silent.

Mathias did not care what any creature or Power might think. It truly was enough. His soul knew it, deep within itself, where joy was rising like a lark in the morning.

'Go,' said that dreadful and merciful judge. 'Live out your sentence, man of Valdemar. Serve it forever as you served it in these lives of yours, both that to which you were entitled and that which you stole in her name.'

Mathias rose. He kept his head bowed in respect, but he could not keep the smile from his lips.

Maybe the judge saw it. If that was so, it said nothing-and that was divine mercy.

Already Mathias felt the pull of the living world. It drew him down out of the land of peace. It enfolded him in a scrap of flesh, the barest beginnings of a human being. Memory was too expansive a thing for this mote in eternity. All that was left was a spark of joy. It would grow as he grew, and fill him always, however dark the world about him.

The Queen of Valdemar bent over the cradle in which her son lay burbling softly to himself. She smiled-she could not help it; there was something so light about him, so irresistibly joyous. 'Look,' she said to her consort. 'his eyes are changing color already. I think they'll be green.'

Lord Terrell took her hand and kissed it. 'Have you decided yet what you'll call him?'

She did not answer at once. Even as besotted with new motherhood as she was, she knew that this was an ordinary enough baby; he ate, slept, and filled his diaper as monotonously as any other of his kind. And yet sometimes she could have sworn that someone she knew and had loved before was watching her out of those blurred infant eyes.

She held her finger in front of them. His hand reached up to clasp it. Yes, those eyes would be green. 'Mathias,' she said. 'His name is Mathias.'

Terrell shot her an odd look, but he did not object. Not for the first time, Vera was glad of her choice of consort. She stood with him, looking down at this new Mathias, and knew in her heart that she had chosen the name well. And maybe...who knew? Maybe it was her dearest friend come back again, to be Heir and eventual King of Valdemar.

That was justice, she thought, and mercy, too. It seemed that he agreed. The nurses all said that he was much too young to smile, but a smile that certainly was, curving his lips as he slid contentedly into sleep.

BROCK

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, six cats, and a chihuahua who refuses to acknowledge her existence. Her latest book, out for DAW in May of 2003, was the third in the Keeper Chronicles called Long Hot Summoning and she's currently working on the first of three books spinning the character Tony off from her Blood series (DAW spring 2004). In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

'Id's just a code.'

Trying not to smile at the same protest he'd heard for the last two days, Jors set the empty mug on a small table. 'Healer Lorrin says it's more, Isabel. She says you're spending the next two days in bed.'

The older Herald tried to snort, but her nose had filled past the point it was possible, and she had to settle for an avalanche of coughing instead. 'She cud heal me,' she muttered when she could finally breathe again.

'She seems to think that a couple of days in bed and a couple of hundred cups of tea will heal you just fine.'

'Gibbing children their Greens...'

That was half a protest at best and, as Jors watched, Isabel's eyes closed, the lines exhaustion had etched around them beginning to ease. Leaning forward, he blew out the lamp, then quietly slipped from the room.

'Oh, she's sick,' the Healer assured him, exasperation edging her voice. 'What could have possessed her to ride courier at her age, at this time of the year? Yes, the package and information she brought from the Healer's Collegium will save lives this winter, but surely there had to have been younger Heralds around to deliver it?'

Jors opened his mouth to answer.

Lorrin gave him no chance. 'If she hadn't run into your riding sector, she might not have made it this far. She needs rest and I'm keeping her in bed until I think she's had enough of it.'

Jors didn't argue. He wouldn't have minded an actual conversation-Lorrin was young and pretty-but unfortunately, she seemed too determined to run this new House of Healing the way she felt a House of Healing should be run to waste time in dalliance with the healthy.

* * *

'Have you good as new. You see. Good as new. Soft and clean.'

Jors stopped just inside the stable door and stared in astonishment at the young man grooming his Companion. The stubby fingers that held the brush, the bulky body, the round face, angled eyes, and full mouth told the Herald that this unexpected groom was one of those the country people called Moonlings. He wore patched homespun; the pants too large, the shirt too small, both washed out to a grimy gray. His boots had seen at least one other pair of feet.

He'd already groomed the chirras and Isabel's Companion, Calida-the sleeping mare all but glowed in the dim stable light.

:Gervis?:

:His name is Brock.: The stallion's mental voice sounded sleepy and sated. :Can we take him with us?:

:No. And how do you know what his name is?:

:He talks to us and he knows exactly-oh, yes-where to rub.: Companions were not in the habit of allowing themselves to be groomed by other than Heralds' hands. Jors found it hard to believe that they'd not only allowed Brock's ministrations but were actually reveling in them. He stepped forward and, at the sound of his footfall, Brock turned.

His face broke into a broad smile radiating welcome. Arms spread, he rushed at the Herald and wrapped him in a tight hug. Staring up at Jors, their faces barely inches apart, he joyfully repeated 'Brother Herald!' over and over while a large gray dog leaped around them barking.

:Gervis?:

:The dog's name is Rock. He's harmless.:

:Glad to hear that.:

'Brock...I can't breathe ...'

'Sorry! Sorry.' Releasing him so quickly Jors stumbled and had to grab the edge of a hay rack, Brock shuffled back, still smiling. 'Sorry. I brushed.' One short-fingered hand gestured back at the Companions. 'Good as new. Soft and clean.'

'You did a very good job.' Jors stepped around the dog, now lying panting on the floor and ran his fingers down Gervis' side. There wasn't a bit of straw, a speck of dust, a hair out of place on either Companion.

:Better than very good,: Gervis sighed.

Jors smiled and repeated the compliment. :Did you say thank you, you fuzzy hedonist?:

In answer, the Companion stretched out his neck and gently nuzzled Brock's cheek, receiving a loud, smacking kiss in return.

'Okay. We go now.' Brock bent and picked a ragged, gray sweater out of the straw and wrestled it over his head. 'We go now,' he repeated, placing both hands in the small of Jors' back and pushing him toward the stable door. 'Or we come late and Mister Mayor is mad and yells.'

'Late for...?'

:The petitions.: Gervis' mental voice sounded more than a little amused and Jors remembered he'd intended to merely look in on the Companions on his way to the town hall.